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There was a cat.
An awkward, fumbling cat.
It was small, yet fully-grown.
Its stomach was too large, yet it didn’t eat enough.
The cat often sat in places it was familiar with, soft spaces it was comfortable enough to be in.
The cat had friends. Other animals it adored, looked up to. Animals it was jealous of.
It really shouldn’t be jealous. It had a good life, good parents, and a home to return to every night. Its friends were worse off. Much worse off. Some had scars, some had given up several times, yet they all pressed on and cared for it.
It was sad. Not the obvious sad, but the aching, desperate sadness that clung to the back of its mind whenever it was awake. It was happy around its friends, it was happy around its family, but the sadness just wouldn’t leave.
It watched its friends be happy, be able to attain things it never could. Some were aspiring artists, others kind and naturally charismatic, others beautiful. It was none of those things.
It watched as its friends found what the cat longed to have in its furthest daydreams. The cat’s friends were able to find lovers.
The cat was a mess. It was awkward, made unfunny jokes at times, too self-conscious to branch out and meet new animals. It hurt, knowing it could never receive what it truly wanted, yet it had to constantly see others bask in the joy it desperately yearned for.
It felt like a burden, complaining about its feelings to its friends. It knew its friends genuinely cared, it knew they wanted to help, but the despair always came back.
It often peered through windows, watching as fictional animals on the tvs were happy. It knew they were fictional, it knew it was simplified. Yet, it still yearned. It wanted someone to hold, it wanted something to touch.
The few crushes it had ended in failure. Some were of friends, others were momentary lapses in judgement. It had a chance, once. It had feelings for another cat, one beaten and bruised. The other reciprocated. It was overjoyed, at first. But then it thought. And thought and thought and thought. Then it lost feelings. It felt terrible, wanting to run at even the sight of the other cat when it came close. Yet the other cat was hurt. It was worse off than it, it would break its heart if the cat denied them now. But, at the same time, it couldn’t bear the thought of leading it on. So it gave up. It eventually came clean, and asked for space. The other cat seemed sad, but still accepted.
They later made up and returned to being good friends, but the cat still regretted it. It still found itself imagining what it would be like to be happy with that other cat. It found itself regretting losing the one opportunity at a closer relationship. Something it wasn’t well enough to get again.
The cat knew it was messed up. Knew that it wasn’t healthy. It’d been getting worse over the years, with its mind being shaved away with how rapidly everything changed. It knew fairytales weren’t real, yet still actively chased them.
The cat felt it was its fault. It was just one thing in the big wide universe. A small, insignificant speck. Nothing it ever did in life would matter. It wasn’t smart, it wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t appealing. It was lazy, destructive, and desperate.
The only romantic love it could find was in its head, imaginary partners that could never come to be.
Sometimes it stared at its legs, wondering what they’d be like snapped in half. Sometimes it stared at its reflection, wondering what it’d look like if the stomach was cut open, blood and intestines spilling out to show what was inside. What would be there? Maggots, or something lovable? A monster, or an angel?
It wondered if something would be able to love that. To be able to split it apart and love it fully, mistakes and all. To be able to consume and desire its innards. It was disgusted with itself.
It needed help, but it was a coward. It wanted to see what it’d be like to be broken, but it was a coward. It was too lazy to hurt itself, too scared to get caught actually being that far gone. Yet it was too lazy to get professional help, scared it was going to have to come clean about these thoughts to another, and have that other tell its loved ones what it tried to keep secret.
It kept telling itself “bottling in your feelings isn’t good” “you’re unhealthy and it’s okay to ask for help”, yet it still never wanted to worry others. It didn’t want to be restricted, what little freedom it had to be taken away so it didn’t harm itself further. It didn’t want others to see it differently. It wanted to be perceived just as it is, yet it didn’t know what it was. A cat, sure. But who, really? It was a background character at most, never destined to be in the spotlight, to have something to hold onto. It was a void, sucking in other animal’s hopes and dreams and plagiarizing them in hopes of finding its own purpose.
It was too tired to go on, yet it couldn’t take the liberty of giving up.
Not just yet.